


An Orc Follows to the Death: Orsimer Pacts and Sworn Oaths

by SocialButtercup



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bonding, Burn Mentions, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gay Orcs, Gift Giving, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Mostly Canon Compliant, Orc Culture, Orcs, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Search for a Cure, Violence, Wakes & Funerals, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialButtercup/pseuds/SocialButtercup
Summary: Dusran Wolf-Heart prepares to leave Dushnikh Yal for the Imperial Legion headquarters in Solitude,  alongside his most treasured tusk-kin Ghorbash The Iron Hand.They swore an Oath of travel, and seek to make a name for Dusran in Malacath's honour, living by the Code and earning their places in the Ashpit, at the Ashen Forge. But Hircine, the God of the Hunt, had other plans for Dusran, attacking the stronghold by way of a gibbering beast that was truly a lycanthrope.Now Dusran's arm runs hot, his face is scarred, and he is terrified of an eternity in Hircine's Hunting Grounds, stolen away from his place under Malacath. Plans change, and the quest for a cure begins, but an Orc keeps his word and Ghorbash willingly accepts temporary exile to travel alongside Dusran, as they originally planned; even if the destination has changed.
Relationships: Ghorbash the Iron Hand/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	1. Salt

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter if you like (account NSFW, 18+ only please!) at @GrowingBro for writing muses and other NSFW thoughts.
> 
> Tags and Warnings/Rating will be updated as/if I proceed, so take them as they are at viewing with a pinch of salt, likely to be changed eventually.
> 
> Descriptions will likely be finalised/given a final pass after completion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title taken from the track 'Salt' by 'Eivør Pálsdóttir', the penultimate track for this chapter's portion of Dusran's playlist.
> 
> Playlist available here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LLwZk6VJSlrRC5Eg7q6Kw?si=n08PF--0SGuI0AkwT52mZg

“Malacath guide you, and provide the strength to resist and break free of Hircine’s transgressions.” Burguk declared solemnly. Chief Burguk was staring at him, face blank. Dusran knew him well enough to know despite the front, there was pity behind his hard eyes; it seemed that was the way his kin were all coping, mostly. Murbul’s words were dedicated to guttural Orcish prayers, declarations to Malacath in his name, her head bowed solemnly.

The gaze made Dusran nervous, and he fiddled with the ivory ring on his left thumb, spinning it and tracing his right thumb over it. It was cool to the touch, and he focused on how he had felt sitting and crafting it in the stronghold, rather than focusing on Burguk’s eyes and his own fears.

The stronghold was mourning without mourning; he was a walking corpse with a burial cairn already erected in the stronghold. Dusran was a stolen thing now. No Blood Price in all of Nirn could beat enough gore from Hircine’s being, not even blows from every Orc that had ever lived. He had been claimed, damned to an eternity in service to a Prince that wasn’t _his_. He wanted to vomit, wanted to give into his Orc blood and destroy something.

Reactions in the stronghold varied. Pity, from most. Disgust, entirely from Dusran himself, paired with a delightful dose of self loathing. Horror from some, mostly Ghorbash the Iron Hand. He didn’t deserve the support of his most treasured tusk-kin, the other Orc immediately assuring Dusran his Oath still stood true. He may as well condemn the Iron Hand to the same fate now; or an unjust death sworn in an Oath that never should have had to have been made; Dusran could join the Legion himself, could travel alone, could try to find Lash alone. Ghorbash didn’t owe him anything.

Ghorbash dying for him wouldn’t violate the Code at all, to be fair, but Dusran still wanted to tear his own infected arm free of his torso at the thought of his kin dying with him in a potentially pointless quest. Rumours were rumours, and the legends could be lies as much as they could be truth, and such tales acted as a mostly-frayed and well-weathered rope trying to drag him forward. The fibres could snap free and leave him stranded at any time. But Dusran had to try, he refused an eternity in The Hunting Grounds; he was destined for the Ashpit, he was a child of Malacath.

_If only he’d been quicker to move, less inclined to give into the rage, to hack and tear at the beast, less inclined for the thrill of declaring such a kill for Dushnikh Yal, eager to make an offering to Malacath…_

His arm still ran hot, face in the last stages of scarring over, trying to heal with the aid of Murbul’s magic. At least, he thought morosely, the scars that would develop further and shine through his dark red warpaint, accentuating his shining golden-brown eyes, would be a declaration to even Hircine himself; he would not be taken easily.

_If only they’d caught it earlier, sent foragers to find the necessary ingredients to attempt a cure for Sanies Lupinus. But Murbul tried her best; the whole stronghold did, rallying together in a refusal to condemn him. And yet here they were, actions born of necessity, ready to expel him. And he was ready to leave. Except for the part where he **wasn’t** ready at all._

It had been two days already, and Dusran knew they had to leave now. He had already lost a day to the infection, and the second was spent at the forge and preparing for the journey ahead, with advice and words to be heeded offered by Gharol, Chief Burguk’s Forge-Wife.

_“Use this anger and this pain, Dusran. Imagine the heads of your enemies as you forge. Let your hatred work the steel and fuel the fire! Do this, and you bring glory to Dushnikh Yal.”_

Improvements were made to his armour, adorning himself with a cloak attached to his helmet, born of the hide of the beast that cursed him. Another declaration to Hircine, another offering to Malacath that _he had not forgotten his Prince._

The remainder of the day was spent resting, occasionally tended to by Murbul, as he idly whittled at bone and wood to calm his mind. Small trinkets for Malacath, to be offered in times of hardship. Crude things, but worthy nonetheless.

Most of the books Murbul possessed had detailed that the average incubation time for Sanies Lupinus was three moons time. He refused to make this worse, to endanger his kin. And yet, he might be taking the Iron Hand to an early death anyway.

Ghorbash stood at his side, armoured, packed, and ready for departure. His good eye, the right one, still held it’s blue colour, and still bore it’s way into Dusran’s head whenever made eye contact; whenever he gave reassuring words that _things would be_ OK and that the Oath still stood. At least that was a wound Dusran hadn’t been responsible for. Ghorbash bore a physical blind-spot in combat, and now it seemed he bore an emotional one towards following Dusran. He was loyal to the point Dusran wished he could fault him for it, demand he stay behind where he would be safer.

In the two days since the attack the Iron Hand had refused to leave Dusran’s side. There was comfort in the intensity there, in the devotion to Malacath, to kin, to their sworn Oaths, to his unwavering faith in Dusran, and his ferocious belief he would reclaim his tusk-kin for Malacath.

“ _An Orc follows to the death.”_ was a serious Orcish declaration, usually to unknowing outsiders who proved their worth, and rightly so. Malacath was revered by the Orsimer, the most spurned and ostracised of the Mer races. He was the Keeper of the Sworn Oath, and the Bloody Curse, and to an Orc, words and pacts were _sacred_. To make a deal, to swear loyalty, was to give yourself entirely. Whether that was to an ally, or kin, or in pursuit of anyone or anything else, it was the same. Orcs were fiercely loyal, incredible combatants, and allowed nothing to be too much of a hardship; the Ashpit was worth the journey.

Ghorbash was an extreme of all of these things. To an Orc, suffering, especially for a cause, was a declaration and an offering to Malacath. It made them stronger, both in bond, and in spiritual worth. Ghorbash viewed Dusran as more than worth dying for, even if that feeling terrified him a little.

Murbul’s guttural praying ended, and she spoke then, softly.

“You are a child of Dushnikh Yal, Dusran. You will have a place here. The entrails and bones showed some promise, but nothing I could give would be solid enough to go on. Continue in your plans, keep Ghorbash close, and you may yet be able to come back. Perhaps our kin at Mor Khazgur may know more, it should not detract too much from your journey to Solitude, if the goal of the Legion still stands.”

“Ghorbash swore an Oath. Malacath would favour him were he to come, and he is not the kind of man to leave his kin. I wish it were different, he could be needed here, but I will welcome his company. Solitude is still the goal, with a stop-in at Karthwasten to deliver Gharol’s blade to Lash. I may still do worthy things in Malacath’s name, despite everything.” Dusran answered solemnly.

“Indeed you might, child. But Malacath does not forsake his true children willingly; you did not turn your back on him as a City Orc would. As Lash did. You brought honour to him, and our tribe, in slaying the messenger of Hircine. He still holds you in his heart as one of his own, however saddening this may be. Keep to your prayers, and your offerings. You will find your way home, I have faith in you, and in Malacath.” Murbul replied.

Dusran nodded in reply, and stepped past her, towards the pile of rocks to the side of the gate. His burial cairn. Constructed for a body that was still walking, and yet they all knew it was necessary, and he felt a sense of bittersweet pride that they felt they could honour him, even in the face of all this.

He slipped the ivory ring off of his thumb, and placed it at the foot of the stones. This he followed with the warhammer he wielded, also laid at the foot of the cairn. He wouldn’t be needing it, and Gharol had gifted him an axe to take with him on the journey; the message it held was clear.

_Remember your tribe; break Hircine’s chains._

Finally, Ghorbash knelt beside him, and drew a large fang from the black fur pack he carried. It detailed a crude carved scene of Malacath cutting the head free from a large bipedal wolf with his greatsword. Dusran stared at Ghorbash with reverence as he placed it gently with the other items and smiled at his tusk-kin. His smile was beautiful, and his tusks accentuated his face in a brutish way, enough to inspire fear in any of the other races, but to an Orc such as Dusran? The Iron Hand was _perfect_.

Ghorbash stood and offered Dusran his hand. Dusran accepted and stood with him.

_“_ We made plans, Dusran. Those still stand. Wherever you go, I shall follow; to the most dangerous corners of Skyrim and back, you will have my blade. I miss the roads, and the freedoms they bring. This time I shall have an Orc by my side. I am honoured and would want no kin other than you.” Ghorbash’s hands delicately traced the dark red marks of Dusran’s war paint, and slowly across the scarring on his cheek that lead into his beard, and then their foreheads met as Ghorbash’s hand fell down to Dusran’s shoulder.

There was comfort in the texture of Ghorbash’s bumpy, horned brows. The position was familiar, and Dusran dwelled on better thoughts; of hunts with his most treasured tusk-kin, and campfires outside the walls when the trails became too dark to continue tracking their prey. Of small gifts Dusran made of bone and hide off-cuts that would otherwise be discarded.

Among them were crude depictions of Malacath to be used for offerings, or a small Orcish warrior he insisted was Ghorbash in full Legion attire, or intricate carvings depicting their hunts, and on one occasion a scene on a large section of bone that took Dusran far more time than he’d otherwise dedicate to such a task. It openly depicted the two of them at the Ashen Forge, both Chiefs in their own right, but _together_ and worthy, never needing for food, or drink, with limitless battles to fight in and honour to claim, glory given to them and their kin; lives well lived.

The last gifted scene was but a hope and dream, but by Malacath all he wanted was for things to go back to normal, and for he and his most treasured companion to be _worthy_ and for he himself to not be torn from all he had planned, gripped in Hircine’s jaws, separated from Ghorbash and the rest of his kind forever.

Ghorbash broke the contact, knowing if they didn’t move now, Dusran would never want to, and the chaos it would bring the stronghold would be something Dusran could never take back, never forgive himself for. The Iron Hand slung the pack onto his back again, and spoke as the gates were opened, a sense of finality to his words.

“Lead then, Dusran; my Oath stands and Solitude awaits. An Orc follows to the death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally dipping my toes into Orc Culture based content I might feel OK with posting. Wildly different in content to Booze and Love Bites, but I wanted something different and I've been plagued by thoughts of gay orcs for far too long, and starting another modded Skyrim run is really what set this in motion (Ghorbash I love you and your dedication!)
> 
> I plan on expanding this (no promises!) by describing their journey, and the initial attack, and delving into the kinda unanswered question of how Malacath reacts to having one of his Children stolen from him, and most importantly how that would affect the actual mortal; living in a world where your Gods are definitively real and claim your soul when you die, only to have your soul stolen and not able to be given freely? Rough stuff. The lore behind most of this was really interesting, and I've tried my best to be at least semi-canon compliant here, but who knows, all orcs are gay and I do what I want.


	2. The Owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is taken from 'The Owl' by 'I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness', the starting track for this chapter's portion of Dusran's playlist.
> 
> Playlist is constantly being edited and re-organised, but is available here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LLwZk6VJSlrRC5Eg7q6Kw?si=n08PF--0SGuI0AkwT52mZg
> 
> Mentions within of combat and burning, regarding the violence-focused tags.
> 
> I still think the Mature Rating applies, but may bump it up to Explicit as we go. As usual, tags and ratings are subject to change.

_When Lash had decided to leave Dushnikh Yal for Karthwasten, it felt as though the young woman had decided, almost overnight, that the Stronghold was not to be her path. She longed to see the world, and Dusran couldn’t exactly blame her._

_The tribe had been called into a meeting to discuss the matter, outside of the longhouse, by the fires. Burguk worried what having them all in close quarters inside the longhouse would cause, should the conversation become heated._

_Ghorbash had reasoned to the tribe that he had made the same choice himself, and Burguk had been honourable enough to welcome him home after his service with the Imperial Legion. Burguk, having already taken his place as Chief, saw Ghorbash as no threat, and the Code could be upheld, and the tribe was kept strong. Ghorbash believed the same should be said for his niece._

_Gharol had argued fiercely against her departure, that she would not lose her daughter in this way, that if Lash wanted to spit in Malacath’s face, and all that the Stronghold struggled with, then she could go for a life of mine-work with those who could barely work their own forges, much less speak purely by shaping their metals._

_Lash’s brother, Umurn, relented that he too was curious of life outside the walls, but knew that the Ashpit was worth the rigidity; that the hunts, and the trading were vision enough of what The Reach had to offer. That abandoning the tribe like this would not bring any glory to Malacath, or to Lash herself._

_Murbul spoke of her attempts to read the entrails of recent kills, or to find answers within her alchemy, but Malacath was silent on the subject. He wasn’t **angry** but he wasn’t **pleased** at the prospect it seemed. Or, perhaps, their God simply did not need concern himself with the life of a singular Orc woman who had already chosen her path._

_Arob and Nagrub knew better than to use their words, the hunters of the tribe simply leaving the decree to Burguk; he would lead them with Murbul’s guidance, and they would be strong._

_Shel, however, was not above comment. She thought her position as ‘Burguk’s favoured wife’, as she referred to herself, would grant her free reign over such declarations._

_“My Chief, Gharol, much like Arob, simply provides weak children; for you, and the tribe. They pale in comparison to the son I will one day bring you. Toss the girl aside, leave her to her City-Orc fantasies if it pleases you. I will provide what none of them can.” she announced venemously, glaring at Lash and Gharol._

_Burguk had intervened then, just as Gharol went to storm towards Shel, shouting curses and snarling out guttural insults._

“ _Enough! Shel, I am your Chief, and Lash is my child, which you will do well to remember. All of my wives, and children, and indeed **every** Orc within our walls provides what is necessary to keep Dushnikh Yal strong and prosperous, and in Malacath’s good graces. Murbul has divined that there is no path we **must** take, one way or the other. The decision falls to Lash.” he declared, and turned to face his only daughter._

“ _Lash, I leave this decision to you. If Karthwasten is your goal, then seek it. But you deny yourself, and your kin, and announce yourself a City-Orc the second you leave us, child. My daughter, I wish you to reconsider, but you have Gharol’s own forge-fire in your heart, and I will not, **can not** , stop you; this I know.” he spoke gently then, and Lash’s face softened at his words._

“ _Father, I know this. I have sat on these thoughts, this yearning for the roads and the rest of Skyrim for many moon cycles… I… I do **not** forsake Malacath, but I cannot stay here, working the metal until it is deemed that I am needed as another Hold’s Forge-Wife. I have… made my choice.” she replied, her words barely heard; the softest, yet most serious, words she could have spoken. She had denied the tribe; chosen her path._

“ _Then come morning, you shall leave, and that will be your fate, Lash. May Karthwasten bring you glory enough that denying the Ashpit, and your people, is worth it. The tribe shall mourn tomorrow, after your leaving. You cause us great pain.” Burguk’s word was final, and Lash simply stared as the other orcs returned to their stations; Burguk seated in front of the longhouse, Shel by his side. Gharol and Umurn returned to the forge and their tasks, Gharol shaking her head and refusing to look back. Umurn stole a last glance and steeled his gaze towards his work. Arob and Nagrub re-took their stations on the walls._

_Murbul had sighed, and placed her hand on the Chief’s daughter’s shoulder._

_“I hope this is worth it to you, Lash. Keep Malacath in your thoughts, and perhaps there may be the option for you to return, or take your place at the Ashpit in the end, after all is done. The entrails did not speak to either side, there is hope if you require it.”_

_Lash had smiled then, a tiny twitch of her tusks, a crack in her walls, more as a result of the comfort than anything else. Murbul squeezed her shoulder, and left her to her thoughts._

“ _The others simply cannot understand.” she muttered, almost bitterly, before sorrow washed over her; her soul bared to the tribe, with the flames before her giving the only reply. Their crackling voice felt so cold, even in their warm brilliance._

Karthwasten was only a short journey from Dushnikh Yal, and Dusran knew that if Lash was there, they could have the delivery done within the day, if they kept pace. Gharol’s message would be delivered, and Lash could start to move on with her life; she had chosen the cities and towns over her kin. Or at least that was how the Stronghold saw it. Dusran still missed her.

Before the attack, before Dusran became a stolen man, Gharol had approached him. She had heard of Ghorbash’s Oath, of the duo’s desire to leave, and find another path. The difference was, at that stage they had intended to return.

“ _I trust the hunt was good today, Dusran? The others spoke of a sabre-cat. The furs and skin will be useful, and the meat will sustain us for some time. Arob and Nagrub mentioned their restlessness, they wish for their turn to return to the wilds to hunt and bring prey back to the Stronghold.” Gharol had greeted him._

_She was working on a blade, shaping it. It was iron, and jagged, roughly formed and sloppily beaten into it’s current harsh form. Not born of precision and skill like her normal work; messages of glory and tributes to Malacath, given to the tribe’s orcs to protect, and to provide, and to bring honour to themselves. This blade was different, and it made Dusran’s skin prickle to look at. It was **wrong.**_

“ _Yes, Gharol, the beast will bring much to the stronghold, and I am glad Ghorbash was there to help me. We ended the creature with simple bow-work; it was not such a terrible experience, trust me.” Dusran grinned, thankful that Gharol kept their equipment in such good condition, and had taught him well to maintain his gear to the same standard._

“ _Must have been difficult to track; you were both gone for such a long time, and your warpaint is smeared. You look like you spread Murbul’s mountain flower paste all over yourself like a child, and then went out and sweat it right off; a fearsome visage indeed. I’m sure the sabre-cat died of a busted gut, not my arrows.” she chuckled, eyes tracing over Dusran’s face, and he felt incredibly flushed. Time had indeed slipped away from them beyond the walls of the Stronghold, the pair having had found their own way to celebrate a successful hunt._

_Worse than that, he took great care in applying his war paints, and tying his hair; his dishevelled state spoke more to his own inability to control himself. Not that he minded. Not that **Ghorbash** minded. Thoughts of his hair down after their hunt, Ghorbash’s fingers running through the length softly, reassuringly, made his face burn._

“ _Regardless, I heard talk from Ghorbash that you intend to leave, and he intends to lead you on your way out. Do you feel the same as Lash? That the Stronghold is a cage, that you require **more** , and that Malacath does not already give **enough** to you, child?” she accused him, and it was obvious everything was still very, very raw, even now._

_Dusran gulped, and he knew he had to be careful in his explanations; they were all hurting over how Lash had handled things, Gharol especially so._

“ _No, Gharol. I do not forsake Malacath, and I do not wish to become a City-Orc. I seek the Legion to bring glory to the tribe, and to bring glory to Malacath. I am not leaving only for myself, I leave for myself while maintaining the goals of the tribe.” he explained carefully, skimming over describing Lash’s reasons for leaving, lest he anger Gharol further._

“ _Very well, Dusran. Everybody here does what they consider necessary anyway, what is the worth of the judgement of the Forge-Wife, in the end?” she sighed._

“ _Karthwasten is on your way to Solitude, then, is it not? I… would appreciate you completing a task for me, Dusran. It is… just for me, not something Burguk would care to bother with asking you to do.” she continued, and Dusran again glanced at the blade she was forging._

“ _We never work with iron, Gharol... It is considered a we-” Dusran started before Gharol cut him off._

“ _A weak metal to work with, yes. More becoming of those in Cyrodil or the Nords of Skyrim, than descendants of the great people of Orsinium, regardless of where we reside; I know this. As do you, clearly. It is not a blade purely for wielding Dusran. It is a message, created in the only way a Forge-Wife knows; the way any Orc knows. Take it to Lash, she will know what it means, as you most certainly will as well, once it is finished.” she explained, her speech intercut with angry snarling as she beat at the misshapen, hideous blade._

_Dusran had met her eyes and nodded then, saddened to think of how things had soured so quickly between the mother and daughter._

“ _I miss her too, Gharol. It is OK t-” he started before Gharol cut him off with a low, primal screaming as she beat into the metal again and again. Her anger and sorrow was the fuel behind the flames that shaped the blade, and Dusran had clearly overstepped to harness such a reaction from the Forge-Wife._

_**The message was becoming clearer.** _

Ghorbash was humming to himself, a tune Dusran did not recognise, as they made their way down the dirt path leading away from the Stronghold.

“Ghorbash, I don’t think I have heard you hum this tune before. Is it from your Legion days?” Dusran inquired.

The Iron Hand grunted and nodded in response, continuing the tune. Dusran opted to let him finish, their heavy steps and his friend’s humming the only real break in the silence around them.

“Eventually, if you wish, I could teach you a few of the tunes we used to recite in the Legion, Dusran. I do not do them justice, but some of them are fun, and better with company.” he spoke, and Dusran smiled.

“I’d like that, Ghor. I really only know the chants of the tribe, and those serve a different purpose than idle humming...” he answered, remembering prayers before hunts, chants to recite before battle, and the low words of worship to be recited when the Wise Women would prepare traditional Orcish war-paint; the real stuff, mixed with blood, not just the bloodless paste Murbul made for tradition’s sake. Their numbers were too few for true blood-based markings, barring the occasional use of a hunt’s prey.

“Then, assuming all goes well tonight, and we have made the delivery, I might introduce you to a few simpler ones. Your voice is best suited for our people’s music, but I imagine you could at least try what I have to offer. The others in the Legion often said I was far too growly in my pronunciations; I told them it simply meant I knew what my voice was meant for, true war chants and Orcish revelry, not city songs.” Ghorbash grinned, and glanced at his companion.

Dusran nodded and spoke softly then, “I hope tonight goes smoothly as well…”, before clearing his throat and quickening his steps. Ghorbash chose not to press the topic of what the night would bring, and simply matched pace.

The pair came to a bridge at the end of the winding dirt road from the Stronghold, with a hut placed on the other side, atop a crossroads that could lead them west to Markarth, were they in need of the help of the city-folk. Continuing north would take them on their way to Karthwasten. A chair was knocked over by the front door, and a dark stain marked part of the door; they weren’t close enough to discern the exact nature.

Dusran eyed it cautiously, before a blur of movement to the side of the hut, in the trees, caught his attention. A man, dressed in furs, and an antlered headdress charged the bridge, two primitive looking war axes in his hands; each adorned with bone fragments on the grip, the blades were sharpened and glinting in the afternoon light.

Dusran’s axe was in his hand in a moment, and, while he knew his way around a war axe decently enough, he missed the heavy warhammer he left to the Stronghold, for use in their mourning.

The man spun forwards as he got closer, one axe missing Dusran, and the other catching his forearm and smashing backwards, off of the armour and staggering them both. Dusran responded by swinging at the man, catching his stomach and tearing through the furs he wore, painting his skin a slow, flowing red. The axe had sliced into the man, but not enough to kill him. He yelped regardless and stumbled backwards dropping one of the axes and catching himself on the side of the bridge. He began a second charge as Dusran readied himself to give the man a quick death, before Ghorbash stepped forward and swung his shield out wildly, cutting off the man’s charge and sending him tumbling over the side, into the barely flowing riverbed under the bridge.

Dusran peered over the side at the man. He was face-down in the incredibly shallow water, his neck bent at an angle that was very much _wrong_. The wound from his stomach mingled with what little water flowed over the stones below. The fall wasn’t very far at all, and if the way he fell hadn’t killed him, and he was still laying there breathing, the bleeding or the flowing water eventually would. Dusran tried not to think too hard on it, hoping the man simply hit his head hard enough on the stone as he went down to make it quick.

Adrenaline still coursing through him, his eyes shot back and forth over the hut, sweeping wildly from one side to the other, looking for more movement. The man wore the dressings of a Forsworn, and their number rarely travelled The Reach alone. Ghorbash grunted at him, and pointed his axe towards the hut, and, satisfied that he couldn’t see any more figures in the foliage, the pair slowly made their way over, axes raised.

The stain they had spied became clearer as they stepped off the stone bridge. Blood; almost entirely dried onto the door. The chair that had been knocked over was missing a leg. There was a high pitched whining noise coming from inside.

“Doesn’t sound like a person… I doubt there’s more of the Forsworn around, or they’d have already charged. Thoughts, Ghor?” Dusran wondered aloud, pressing his ear against the door.

“Sounds like business for others; non-Orcs. We have a goal, we should keep moving.” was the reply, and Dusran glanced at him.

“The blood is almost dried, Dusran. Anybody who was bleeding is either dead, or competent enough to have patched themselves up by now. It’s not our concern.” he grunted, continuing.

Suddenly there was scratching at the door, and Dusran jumped slightly, making Ghorbash snort. This earned a glare in The Iron Hand’s direction. Ghorbash sighed then, and nudged Dusran free of the door, knowing the man’s curiosity would one day lead them into more trouble than the task was worth. The darkened, flaking doorhandle was taken in hand and twisted, and then Ghorbash pulled it open. Barking filled his ears as a dog pushed past him, making him stumble; it’s coat was matted and a darkened red colour in places.

The dog bounded out towards the bridge, stopped dead in it’s tracks, sniffed, ran back and forth slightly, and then bolted off down the path.

“Happy now? You freed a hound. Let’s move. If it has any sense it will fend for itself and live.” Ghorbash spoke, motioning for Dusran to turn and follow.

“Ghor, it could be some kind of hunting dog; you know they’re often used so what’s to say whoever was here didn’t get one? They could have supplies in the hut, and dead men don’t need such things.” Dusran countered, remembering Arob and Nagrub having mentioned many times finding competing hunters in the wilds with their own hunting dogs; clearly needing the help, if you asked either of the Orcs.

“Dusran, if you _must_ poke your head around in a dead man’s home to see what you can use, then feel free. I’d like to think we could hunt well enough for ourselves, and see ourselves to Karthwasten quickly enough, to not need to resort to this.” The Iron Hand sighed, and his fingers twitched over the handle of his axe, as he stared into the doorframe. The hut was silent now.

“We’ll only be a moment, Ghor. It’s a small hut, there likely won’t be _much_ , but it’s worth the quick look-through.” Dusran poked his head into the doorframe, looking around as he spoke, before recoiling at the smell of burning.

“This is… definitely going to be more trouble than it’s worth, but I’m curious now. Let’s… make this quick. Ugh.” he shuddered, as Ghorbash rolled his eyes.

The long-haired Orc took a few quick steps into the small abode, and took in the singular room before him. A trapdoor was in the corner of the room, beside a small bloodied table, the contents knocked onto the floor. The accompanying chair was also stained. A bookshelf was along the far wall, next to a hearth, and opposite the shelving was a small bed; it seemed the cause of the smell.

A Breton man was splayed out on the bed, dressed in long robes. The entire right side of the garb was burnt away and in tatters, his arm and chest scarred with burn marks. It seemed a jagged wound on his gut had been seared shut. A dagger lay on the floor next to him, alongside a broken arrow; the blade was iron, and looked deceptively new, no real wear or knicks in the metal to speak of. This man was not a warrior, or a hunter.

“Mage;” Ghorbash stated, his nose crinkling and his legs fidgeting.

“Likely attacked by whatever Forsworn were separate from our friend outside, he probably tried to seal the wound shut himself. Panic doesn’t lend well to magic, Dusran. He was clearly no Murbul, that’s for sure. Perhaps he knew no healing spells and had to resort to that?” he continued, shaking his head.

Dusran was looking over the table, moving onto the bookshelf, hoping to find _something_ to make the invasion of a dead man’s home worthwhile. So far he was coming up empty.

The cursed Orc was hesitant to search the actual body of the bed-ridden man, disturbed by the implication of being so desperate as to turn your own fire magic against your own flesh to save yourself. If the man in the bed were an Orc, maybe he would have been calmer. Maybe the Grudge would have fueled his nerves, and his battle-rage would have overtaken him; kept his mind clear.

Sorting through the limited books on the table instead, he found a small note; folded and tucked inside a copy of _The Book of Daedra_ , beside a copy of _The Pig Children_. Dusran stowed _The Book of Daedra_ , and tossed the copy of _The Pig Children_ onto the man’s bed.

“Pig children… Keep your hatred, dead man. Maybe you deserved this after all...” he muttered, before opening and reading the folded note aloud.

_**If what I’ve overheard is true, then the group of bandits inhabiting Robber’s Gorge in Hjaalmarch should have the Beacon. If I can make my way out of the hut, and travel the roads until I reach them intact, then I might be able to seize my prize and curry favour with Meridia, and take the Oathkeeper from her.** _

_**If Vikus decides to follow me and kill me with his foul risen-corpses, then I will be ready. The blade will protect me, as will my Destruction prowess. I need only be swift, and not draw attention before I leave.** _

Dusran snorted, and glanced back over at the scarred corpse of the mage. Destruction prowess indeed.

“I don’t think we’ll get much more than this, Dus. I hope your curiosity is sated, friend. But I suppose at least we know to look out for Robber’s Gorge, and to _definitely_ avoid it if the note is true and another Daedric Prince has an artifact there. I’ve no desire to see another lay a claim on you, much less _another Daedra._ ” Ghorbash muttered, ushering Dusran towards the door.

“It’s already a coin-toss on whether I make it out of this anyway, not to mention if I don’t get killed whenever Hircine starts to take hold. What’s another variable stacked against me, in the end?” Dusran responded, attempting a soft laugh, and an even weaker smile, but all that came was a twitch of his lips and a shaky exhale.

Ghorbash’s hand was on his back as he led him out of the hut, thumb reassuringly moving rhythmically back and forth against the pelt on his back as they walked.

“Malacath will not abandon one of his children, Dusran. Never left me when I stole away for the Legion; Won’t have left Lash to her path alone. Dushnikh Yal is strong, as are we, love. He will see that, and reward our respect of the Grudges, and our Oaths. He values and rewards our strength, and our resolution in the face of our isolation and exiles.” Ghorbash reassured, and Dusran could only shakily nod in response.

The pair continued down the path, following the river, making note of the trees for any more Forsworn as they went. They noted a few wolves moving as a pack amongst the trees, but the canines did not move to attack them, strangely enough; Dusran figured they had a scent and were too preoccupied to notice the Orcs. He certainly wasn’t complaining.

Eventually, the afternoon sun set, and the sky turned orange, and their feet brought them to their destination. Karthwasten was marked by a small, shabby wooden sign, hanging from a wooden lamp-post, though the town had nothing else really declaring it.

There were a few large huts dotted around the west side of the town, one of which bore a decking area with a forge; likely their trade hub for outsiders.

To the east, a dirt path led towards a large set of wooden doors, with mounds of metal and coal leading the way, littered beside the path. A smelter was erected near the door, and men in leather and steel armour walked down the path.

A clump of various people in miner’s clothes stood in the centre of town, near an arguing Nord in steel armour, and a Breton in cloth finery. Another path lead back to the end of the town, though Dusran could not see where, and he needed to find Lash.

The pair of Orcs made their way to the mass of people, and chose to stay to the side, noticing Lash to the side of a different Nord man, as the arguing Breton and Nord continued. As the pair came closer, the conversation became clearer.

“-ant you sellswords out of my mine, for the last time. You’ve no claim to it!” the Breton exclaimed and the Nord took a step forwards.

“Watch your tongue, _native_. We leave when we’re sure there’s no Forsworn hiding here.” the Nord growled in response, and the Breton threw his hands up.

“And when will that be? When I sell my land to the Silver-Bloods!? You’re not having Sanuarach, or the land it sits on.” was the Breton’s exasperated response, as the Nord chuckled and ushered his men back towards the wooden doors of the mine.

“The Silver-Bloods made you a very, very generous offer, _native._ I suggest you take it; for your good, and theirs.”

The Breton grumbled and made his way over to the front of the huts, with the miners dispersing. Some went into one of the larger huts, and a few others made their way down the road through the back of the town. Lash stayed close to the Nord she was first spied with, and Dusran made eye contact, her own eyes widening as he and Ghorbash made their way over. She excused herself from her Nord companion, who stared, confusedly, at the new Orcs in the village.

“Hmph. Did the pair of you come to bring me back? Did Mother finally snap, demand I be brought back to the Stronghold, then? What of Father, of Umurn? I told them my choice, and I’ve no need to change it. _I have not abandoned Malacath._ ” The first words they heard from her in weeks, and she was already on the defensive.

“I see Dusran has moved to larger kills as well; is that a misshapen bear? You always were bad with fixing pelts to your armour, Dusran. Mother surely taught you better.”

The remarks on the cursed hide he wore made Dusran’s entire body tense up. Admittance to the Stronghold came from checking wounds and Murbul’s assessment, he never had to _admit_ anything to them. Maybe the dark voice prowling in the back of his mind was _right_. Maybe he was too quick to try to take the glory of presenting another Prince’s warrior to Malacath; maybe his feverish battle-trances had left him nothing more than an outcast among outcasts, a broken thing to be tossed aside by Malacath, by his own actions.

He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find his voice. His mouth was dry and his stomach was knotted and the only comfort was Ghorbash’s weighted presence next to him. Even in this, it seemed, he had his most treasured tusk-kin by his side.

Finally, he found the faintest whisper on his tongue, and it tore itself free. It seemed the admittance was more for his own ears to hear, his voice not wanting to let Malacath hear of his betrayal.

“It… wasn’t a bear…”

“No, Lash. You made your choice. Dusran and I left due to… other matters; I would rather not speak of them openly. Exile, in a sense… Things went bad after a hunt.” Ghorbash spoke then, demanding her attention, and Dusran avoided her eyes, swinging his pack off of his shoulders and retrieving the blade Gharol had made as he cleared his throat and centred his voice. This next part would be easier.

The ugly, misshapen, jagged sword was held out to her. It would still prove lethal, should it ever see use, but it was a _message_ first and foremost. A conduit for Gharol’s anger, and shame, and guilt.

“This is from Gharol. She approached us to bring it to you before everything; we planned to leave for Solitude, and you were on the way. Now we’re… We don’t know exactly _where_ to go, but Solitude could still be a good start.” Dusran explained, and Gharol’s face fell as she took the blade.

“Iron; couldn’t even spare the Orichalcum for me. Jagged edges, too thin and near-broken in places, almost useless. But sharp. Brittle, but good for a few strikes if needed. Clearly she doesn’t want me harmed, since I could still use it if my life was dependant on it, but I guess that’s it then, truly. _‘Don’t come back.’”_ she mused aloud, exhaling shakily at the end of her assessment, running her fingers over the blade, turning it and observing, taking in the intent.

“Thank you. You honoured her task, at least, though I am sure you do not relish in it; either of you. I have missed you both, as I have missed everyone, truly. It is… good to see you. I will speak to Ainethach, you may stay here for the night. Better than the roads, or a tent.” she declared, before walking to the Breton, assumedly the man she called Ainethach, and conversed in a hushed tone.

The man’s brow furrowed, but she pointed at them, and the man sighed, before nodding. Lash motioned them over, and she led them to the end hut.

“Miner’s quarters. You’re both welcome to stay in here with myself and the others for the night. Ainethach will have to learn to deal with things such as this, if he wants a solution to his problem, but we will speak more in the morning of that, and what I have missed. I need to leave, to be alone for a time. Try to get some rest, when it pleases you both.” She explained, before walking off the way they entered.

The room was empty of others as they entered. Six beds were spread throughout the room, three of them having various possessions near them. Boots, a small locked chest, clothes, and other various objects. One bed had a few ivory trinkets tied to the bed-post, and Dusran figured it to be Lash’s.

The pair moved one of the three beds next to another, leaving one alone, and placed their packs at the footing. It would do, for tonight at least. Their packs were placed at the foot of the bed.

“Decent enough.” Ghorbash hummed, and Dusran was silent.

The Iron Hand began to discard his armour, and Ghorbash noticed Dusran had not yet replied, or started on his own. He turned to look at the man with his good eye, Ghorbash’s own scarred, battle-mapped body almost entirely free of his armour now, down to his small-clothes, and Dusran simply stared right through him.

“Tonight’s the third night, Ghor...” the younger Orc whispered. Ghorbash nodded. The books Murbul had found said the incubation period for Dusran’s condition was roughly three night’s time. He didn’t know what would happen, but he wanted to calm his tusk-kin.

“Would you rather we move on? Take on the wilds tonight, away from the town, and Lash? It’s not a guarantee anything will happen tonight, but the choice is yours.” the Iron Hand offered, and Dusran wasn’t sure of his own answer.

“I might leave. Tonight. I’ve no plan to get any sleep. I feel… restless, and anxious, and I do not relish having others in a tiny hut with me, should anything happen. Killing the thing that came to the Stronghold was challenge enough. These people aren’t _warriors_ , Ghorbash. They’re not _like us_.” Dusran answered, and Ghorbash shook his head.

“I’ve no desire to see us leave so soon, or so late in the evening, Dusran. But if you lead, I will follow. Our task here is done, after all.” Ghorbash spoke, trying to reassure his love.

“ **No.** No.. I will leave, you stay here. I’ll return, come morning. We don’t know what happens, and the books didn’t reveal near enough. I’ve no desire to kill anyone tonight, Ghor, _least of all you._ ” Dusran was shaking now, and Ghorbash’s heart broke. The warrior took the younger Orc in his arms and simply held him, neither of them bothering with words.

They remained that way for a short time, just the two of them, before Dusran’s breathing became a little less shaky. He still didn’t part the gap; only moving when Ghorbash stepped back to begin to remove his companion’s armour, starting with the helm. It was lifted off and set near the bedding, on the floor.

The Iron Hand’s arms moved up, fingers gently grabbing at the leather band tying Dusran’s hair up, and after pulling it free the trembling Orc’s hair was flowing down his back. It reminded him of how beautiful Dusran would look after a hunt, at camp; or as the light hit him and water ran down his frame when their hunts would end near the jagged rockbed of the waterfall near the roads leading to the Stronghold.

Ghorbash’s fingers found their way to Dusran’s face, tips tracing the warpaint and the scarring, and by Malacath he was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, across any of his life’s travels, and how it _pained him_ to see his tusk-kin so vulnerable, terrified; living with the sense of duty and community imposed by the Stronghold. Even now he was thinking of others; of Ghorbash, of how to serve Malacath, of Lash, of the people of Karthwasten.

The practically shaped, sturdy yet jagged chestpiece and attached pelt came next, baring Dusran’s flesh to Ghorbash’s eyes. A dark, dull green tone in the candelight, betraying how brilliant that same intensely strong green could look at times when it was just the duo on their own, in better times, and full sunlight. Thick, golden rings shone in the light, dangling from his nipples, and Ghorbash’s mind went back to images of smaller, easier hunts; Dusran opting for much lighter furs to cover his lower half, his torso painted in flower-paste to accentuate that which covered his face.

To an Orc, warpaint was a _declaration_ , and there was honour in facing everything you killed with your own eyes. Thus, the Orc’s never hid themselves with their helms, the front always open, always bearing their face to the world. Different colours and designs for different situations. The designs of the Hunts would often mingle with the blood of their prey, and the application was ritualistic before departure, and just as much used to ease Dusran’s mind.

Ghorbash had grown to take in the serenity of helping to paint his tusk-kin’s body. Seeing him without paint below the bulky armour felt _wrong_ somehow, and it drove home that they had truly left. They would need to gather flowers, in the coming days if things got better. _When they got better._

The rest of his armour followed, baring his legs and feet, and then Dusran was laid bare in his small-clothes to match Ghorbash. The armour was piled to the side, as The Iron Hand’s had been, and the younger man closed the distance again, resting his head on his companion’s shoulder, against his neck. Skin on skin contact; touch; it was needed and important and Dusran had the most overwhelming desires to vomit, to run, to hide, to scream, and to be still with Ghorbash, all at once. The older Orc gently stroked at his back, humming an old Orsimer tune in his deep voice, low in his throat. It was comforting. The Iron Hand’s arms felt grounding, as they wrapped around him.

Eventually he felt more in control of himself, and the cursed Orc moved to separate, and to climb into their temporary beds. He chose not to look at the red stains on Ghorbash’s shoulder, to think of how his own face would look. Smudged and streaked, and any pride in himself gone. He was trying to ignore that voice that was still prowling. He hadn’t even noticed his own tears, mind too occupied with attempting to ground himself in Ghorbash’s comfort.

_**Malacath knows. You betrayed him by being over-eager, and now you can’t even paint your declarations properly; unable to keep them from staining everything in the exact same way you do. Some pride of the Stronghold you are.** _

_**You’ll stay here, and you’ll kill them. They’ll all die, and you’ll feast, and Hircine will be so very proud. You’ll take to his side on the Hunting Grounds, and achieve what you never could at the Ashen Forge. You chose to forsake that place with your bloodlust and pride.** _

He shook his head then, and shakily exhaled. Maybe he _was_ weak; couldn’t even muster the voice to _tell himself to stop_ , to make the vocalisation real and tangible. The urge to vomit, or to scream, came back stronger. He still didn’t vocalise it.

Climbing into the bed, with Ghorbash behind him in the other, still holding him. The gap between them made it awkward, but Dusran did not want to move. Ghorbash was not complaining. The cursed Orc tried his best to calm his heart, and Ghorbash simply held him. Eventually, sleep claimed The Iron Hand.

He woke to not-so-quiet murmurings about “more blasted Orcs in the quarters” from a voice he did not recognise, before he heard Lash’s voice cut in.

“Let them rest, fool. You’ve not been privy to their journey, or their reasons for leaving. If you’ve an issue with Orcs, challenge me to a fight and we can settle the forge-fire in your blood that way. I promise to stop _after you’ve lost an arm._ ” she growled towards the man near the doorway. The man began to stammer out a response before they both turned to stare at Ghorbash as he bolted up and crawled over the bed next to him.

Dusran was gone.

His armour still lay where it was, and there seemed to be no proof of him taking any possessions with him. The pack was still there, as was his axe. It was almost as though he had disappeared entirely, and Ghorbash was panicking thoroughly now.

Lash spoke then, and handed him a small ivory trinket from the small wooden table beside her bed, a cut leather strip tied around it, the two ends swaying limply. It matched those found on Lash’s bed.

“I didn’t cut this free from my bed, Ghorbash. I think he left it here; perhaps he did not have the bone to make his own, or perhaps time was a pressing matter. I do not know what happened while I was gone, but I am sorry.” she spoke softly, and the ivory traded hands.

Ghorbash gently spun it around in his fingers, and took in the markings. It was such a tiny, delicate thing and it held so much _weight_. First to Lash, and now to Dusran.

_**Malacath forgive me.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little more angsty than the previous chapter, and for now serves as more of a set-up piece for the next chapter, hopefully involving the Karthwasten Mine, and Dusran's actions that are to come.
> 
> I was always sad that there wasn't any expansion on Gharol's quest if you were an Orc in Skyrim, and I wanted to try and delve into why an Orc would leave the Stronghold, and how that would be handled.
> 
> Sure, she's still technically working the mines, but I assume it's more getting work with the skills you have.
> 
> I also did not want to stray too much from the default appearance of Gharol's gift blade to Lash, as I figured not even making it an Orcish blade could just add to the message of it all.
> 
> Apologies for the wait as well; current state of the world and all. Hopefully a worthy follow up, even if it is more of a set-up piece!


	3. Fight-Or-Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is taken from 'Fight-Or-Flight' by 'Gazelle Twin', and is the opener for this chapter's section of the playlist, ending with 'Prayer' by 'Johnny Hollow'.
> 
> Playlist is constantly being edited and re-organised, but is available here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LLwZk6VJSlrRC5Eg7q6Kw?si=n08PF--0SGuI0AkwT52mZg
> 
> Mentions of animal death during hunts, and general combat gore.
> 
> Upping the rating to explicit to be on the safe side for gore/combat, and it will suit what might be coming in future chapters anyway, so I'll bump it up now.  
> As always, individual tags will be added and adjusted as we go, so feel free to check those out to cross-check for any issues that could arise in my content!
> 
> Also, as a final note, I created and then added a title image to the first chapter, so feel free to have a look if you like!

_Orsimer pay tribute to Malacath in a variety of ways, before a variety of activities. Sometimes trinkets and offerings for favour, other-times blood and action for forgiveness. Dusran was occupied with the former, as he gathered his furs and stained his fingers in anticipation of the day’s hunting._

_Today a deep crimson tone, alongside a pale golden-yellow, using them in tandem to paint his face, accentuating the ferocity behind his gleaming brown eyes, painting his forehead with the well-practiced lines, swooping along his cheeks and staining parts of his beard red. The crimson would mingle with the blood, should combat get close, and the gold tracing paid tribute to Malacath, thankful for the payment of a bountiful hunt. The paint was a temporary payment, the price be paid in full by the blood of the game they would claim in the hunt to come._

_His torso was adorned in the same colours, rigid lines running over his body. His entire chest was an offering; he couldn’t offer the beating heart from the core of his being for Malacath to smelt away just yet, he was not due a Good Death, but this would come close for the time being. The rigidity was broken in places by various dots and swoops, patterned work specific to his Stronghold, also twisting along the length of his arms, openly displayed, hidden only under his bracers. The glory was as much Malacath’s, as it was **his** , and his Stronghold’s, and all eyes would behold it._

“ _Dusran, come on. We’ve already lost some of the morning light. The others know we will be gone for most of the day, but we shouldn’t be wasting time.” Ghorbash had announced, his own face painted modestly with a dull red, just enough to accentuate his scarred face in places._

_Dusran shrugged._

“ _You like when I paint myself, and you know it! Besides, I like to be seen by Malacath, and to bring pride to the tribe.”_

_The older Orc motioned to the brightening skyline, rolling his eyes. Indeed, in a blur of preparation, the sky had gone from a darkened purple colour to a more bright bluish violet tone, and now it was on the precipice of brightening entirely in the hours to come, Nirn’s sun bathing the land in it’s brilliance. If they hurried, they could still catch some of the early-morning cover._

_Dusran’s fingers were sticky; painted a dark red on one hand, and a deep golden-yellow on the other. He wiped them on his furs, streaking them as much as he himself was. He was like a beacon for Malacath on this day, and the Daedra **would** **see** **him** , and bring the duo glory on their hunt this day. This he knew._

The outskirts of Karthwasten, marked by a well-worn northbound trail, felt abysmally chilly to Dusran, and he longed for the firepits of his home; of chatter amongst his people. He longed for his armour, feeling naked without a blade by his side. Small-clothes were no comfort in the middle of the night.

_**With any luck, you’ll freeze, and save everyone the trouble, Beast.** _

The voice that had persisted in his head since that moment in the miner’s quarters still berated him. His mind had been disquieted, even as he laid in his love’s arms, playing the attack over and over in his head.

Karthwasten was not a warrior’s town, and Ghorbash already fought at a disadvantage, even for all his experience. He had to leave. He _had_ to.

_**There’s nowhere for you to go, Wolf-Heart.** _

_Away. To my death. To some desolate creature’s den, to ride this out... It doesn’t matter. I just need to get through tonight._

The voice merely chuckled; a soft noise, barely above the insidiousness of a whisper but it reverberated through his skull and into his very soul. He shivered, but pressed on.

Dusran’s body felt chilled to the bone now, and he was almost stumbling along the trail in his haste. Wind rushed through the trees, the howling filling his ears. His head was thumping, partly due to the incessant mocking in his head, and partly from, what he assumed, was to come. Nearly tripping over his own feet, he stumbled off the path, and into the trees, the moon lighting his way, filtering through the leaves and onto the cold, damp ground.

_Trees will provide cover. Maybe this way I can avoid running into some poor fool stupid enough to travel at night._

He didn’t get over-far into the treeline before his whole body felt aflame, despite the battering frost in the woods. He was panting now, heavy and heaving deep in his chest. His legs acted almost of their own accord, and he was running now, crashing through and around the trees, stumbling but still clawing forward. Using both legs, both legs and his hands, it didn’t seem to matter now, the movements felt fluid and natural. He just had to _move **.**_ Get more distance between himself and Ghorbash.

His mind could no longer recognise the distance his limbs carried him, and all the trees looked too similar in the night’s pale lighting. He stumbled a final time, and landed on his stomach with a heavy thud. His breathing quickened, and his heart felt like it might burst, like an off kilter rhythm in his chest; a drunken Orc playing a war drum to spite Malacath; to spit the coming blood of the hunt into his face.

And then he was screaming, a deep, guttural snarling, from the very core of his soul, as his body shifted and changed. His form was enshrouded in fur, and his ears lengthened, arms became bulkier, legs thickened and feet became sturdier, bigger to throw his form forwards in the hunt to come. His entire form lengthened, and searing pain flushed through the base of his spine, as a tail slowly ruptured outwards from his flesh. His fingernails lengthened into claws, bursting from the skin of his fingers.

Barely conscious from the pain, feeling like he was suffocating, a mixture of thought and snarled sobbing came from Dusran as his face began to shift and change. The repetition of the growled words bringing what little focus he could muster, in an effort to stop his mind from shattering entirely in that moment.

_**Malacath protect me. Malacath guide me.** _

_Dusran had looked glorious as they set out past the walls of the Stronghold, shining red and gold, streaked with brilliance. A sturdy Orcish bow was slung on his back, and a small dagger at his side. Ghorbash couldn’t ask for a better hunts-partner._

_They had left later than intended, but Ghorbash did not mind, truly. They would still find **something** out in the wilds to bring back, surely, and even if not, they had enough meat and furs to sustain them through one scarce hunt._

“ _It’s not entirely a waste of time,” Ghorbash declared, unprompted. “You do look very handsome.”_

_Dusran beamed at the praise for his ritualistic work._

_They trailed through the brush and wilds surrounding the Stronghold, and further out, by the water and further still, all in search of game to track. The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, and tracking was proving difficult, the only trail to be found seemingly from a deer, but it ran cold some time ago. The game was making itself scarce today._

“ _I think it’s not Malacath you’re a beacon for, Dusran. I think you’re too bright, and caught the notice of Hircine, and he’s gathered all his followers and made their woodland friends hide!” Ghorbash joked, chuckling._

“ _Oh! Well, we could always venture further out and convene with the Forsworn if you’d like confirmation.” Dusran jabbed back, smirking._

_Ghorbash shook his head, smiling._

_Twigs cracked nearby, and they both froze, craning their heads in the direction of the noise, the bow in Dusran’s hand in an instant, and Ghorbash’s axe in his._

_A large stag stood nearby, just through the trees, ambling forwards._

“ _Nevermind; must be the one we lost… Odd… Malacath still smiles on us, then. Even if he is **late**.”_

_Dusran moved forwards, to get a clearer shot between the trees. A few deep breaths as he took in the sight, absentmindedly fidgeting with the ivory ring on his thumb. The enchantment felt like static under his thumb, and he thanked Murbul for granting him a better shot._

_The stag was quite large, and it’s branching antlers would give them ample offerings to present to Malacath. The meat would more than keep them going, and the fur was **beautiful**. He hadn’t seen a stag quite so pale and brilliant before._

_Dusran drew an arrow, nocking it as he inhaled deeply. Ghorbash grunted behind him, keen to see if the shot would land. He wasn’t Legion material yet, but their hunts afforded Ghorbash the opportunity to teach his tusk-kin better technique, and the ring certainly helped a great deal._

_The creature snorted and it’s ears twitched, before suddenly an arrow flew through the air and bounced off of the stag’s antlers, causing it to bolt with a bellow, heavy hooves thudding along the ground and breaking sticks and disrupting leaves and plants alike. Ghorbash’s bow was instantly trained to his right, as he scanned the trees. The arrow wasn’t his._

“ _Blasted beast…” came a mutter from the trees as a Nord emerged from the treeline, a bow in hand._

_The man was dressed similarly to Dusran, furs adorning his body, but where Dusran’s chest was bare, the Nord’s was covered. Various pelts stitched together to make a patchwork quilt of armour, accentuated by pieces of bone and horn; warm looking, and probably effective enough in combat. For Nord work._

“ _Hold, Nord. The bow; drop it.” came Dusran’s voice as he stood and slowly crept forward, arrow trained at the man. The Nord’s eyes darted to the side, as he smirked._

_A soft chuckle came from his mouth and he spoke, raising his free hand, the left one, above his head, holding it to the side of his long, brown hair. His pinky was missing entirely, and the ring finger was shiny in the top section. A glinting, makeshift fingertip was the cause._

“ _And your Orcish friend, in the trees? He’s not hidden very well. Scent travels on the breeze, and those trees don’t offer near enough shade to hide him, even despite this greenery. You call yourself a hunter, friend?”_

“ _I said drop the bow, Nord! The kill was ours and you, in all your delightful Nord wisdom, misfired and let the beast go free. Malacath’s tusks, it’s like watching a child learn to work a bow…”_

“ _I’d sti-” the Nord began, and the arrow was freed from Dusran’s bow, whizzing past his neck and into a tree behind him; the man jumped, barely, before chuckling softly again._

“ _Bow. Down. **Now**.”_

_The Nord rolled his eyes and the bow was thrown towards Dusran, and the man’s second hand joined his first, above his head._

_Dusran’s bow was quickly slung onto his back and then the dagger was unsheathed and in his hand. If the Nord tried anything, Dusran was fairly certain he could close the distance and get him on the ground in time._

“ _Happy? I’d still like your friend to come out, if it pleases you.”_

_Ghorbash walked from the trees then, hand on his hip, ready to once again unsheathe his axe in a moment._

“ _Dusran, surely you don’t really feel the need to terrorise some random Nord hunter?”_

“ _We haven’t found anything all day, and the first stag we **do** manage to find, this fool glances and scares off. I’ve no desire to owe a debt to Malacath, and it’s getting late, Ghorbash.”_

“ _You’d rather Hircine then?” the Nord interjected, and they both turned to stare at him._

“ _I take it your lot wouldn’t know too much of the Hunt-Lord’s domain and disciples, then, friends. I myself had to learn… The beast is one of Hircine’s own; the size and pelt are an easily distinguishable feature, if you know what to look for. Not Uricanbeg, but one of His children, surely. The stag comes to breed on our plane every so often at Hircine’s whim. I suspect if I slay one of it’s offspring I can commune with my Lord. He has… **rewarded** me, in the past, and I wish to commune with Storihbeg, to learn what He may teach me, should Hircine fancy humouring me. How to be an even greater hunter, and to make the best use of His blessings.”_

“ _Good for you. The stag looked no different than any other. The game was **ours** , and if we find it, we’ll be taking it, **friend**.” came Dusran’s sarcastic response._

“ _There will be more wildlife to hunt, Dusran. We should be taking our leave; one stag is no good reason for us to be interfering with what could be a Daedric communion.” Ghorbash was staring daggers into the Nord’s golden-brown eyes._

_Dusran turned to Ghorbash to respond and Ghorbash cut him off with a glare, before his eyes softened._

“ _ **Drop it. We’ve other places to be, tusk-kin. Please.** ”_

_Dusran sighed, and glanced at the Nord as Ghorbash walked past him and away, beckoning for Dusran to follow. The Nord simply nodded._

“ _Follow the path I came on and you may find some hares when you re-emerge at the path along the river that runs towards your Stronghold, friends. The breeze betrayed them as I passed.”_

_With that, the Nord grabbed his bow and jogged further into the trees, no doubt after the stag he believed to be the offspring of Uricanberg, whoever that was to Hircine’s followers._

“ _Tusker…” Dusran cursed under his breath, moving to catch up to his companion._

Ghorbash stared blankly at the ivory in his hand, barely hearing Lash as she spoke to him.

Dusran was _gone_ , without a parting word, or his tusk-kin at his back.

A few deep breaths later and he swallowed down the anxieties, and could hear Lash again.

“-and search for him tonight, if you feel the need, Ghorbash.”

Ghorbash cleared his throat and glanced at her. It seemed she was open to trying to find him tonight. _Foolish, even without the lycanthropy_.

“No. We need to ride this out. He won’t, _can’t_ , come back. Not until morning.”

Lash furrowed her brow and went to speak then, before Ghorbash interjected.

“Stronghold business. Get the Breton out of here and we can talk. Your town can learn after you, this needs to be done right.”

The man near the door began to grumble, walking forwards, muttering about “his quarters” before Lash moved to face him, towering over the shorter man.

“ _Out, Belchimac._ ”

After some stuttering, the man acquiesced and stepped outside, muttering as he went.

“Ghorbash, what _happened_ after I left? You need to tell me, everything.”

The older Orc nodded, tracing his thumb over the trinket in his hand, hands trembling, before he began to explain.

_True to the Nord hunter’s word, rabbits were indeed on the track the man passed through on his hunt of the stag. The duo found a burrow or two, and spied a few skittish hares on the path, easily taken down with their bows._

_They weren’t **much** but they would do; it was something at least._

“ _There; now we have something to offer, at least. Calm your blood, Dusran. You’ve been prickly since we found the Nord.” Ghorbash said, as the duo attached the hares to their furs, almost ready for the trek home._

“ _A few rabbits. Yes, some bountiful hunt. I just… wanted more out of today. If we… If **I** do leave for Solitude, I need to make a far better offering for Malacath’s blessing than this. Anything less would be letting him, and myself, down, and declaring myself as good as gone forever, essentially a City Orc. They’ve the right to choose their path, but I’ve no desire to turn my back on Malacath. Just to see the world, to see beyond the walls, and The Reach. That stag was **gorgeous** , Ghor. Would have been the perfect way to ask for a blessing to travel… Bastard Nord came and ruined it.” Dusran grumbled, and he stiffened as Ghorbash’s hand rested on his shoulder._

“ _When **we** leave for Solitude, because you’re not going alone, it will be on our terms, and Malacath will see the honour in the way we sing and scream of Dushnikh Yal for all to hear; that honour, and that spreading of our words will mean more than any hunts-gifts. There are many ways to pay tribute. Not all have to come from Blood Price, of our own kin or otherwise.”_

_The older Orc’s words were reassuring, and he was thankful for his tusk-kin. In that moment, yes, but **always** too. Ghorbash kept him grounded at his worst._

_Still, disappointment clung like a foul stench from the rabbits on his furs, and he swallowed it down before nodding his head back in the general direction they came. It was time to head home, the setting sun turning the sky a brilliant orange. The colour would look beautiful painted on Ghorbash’s skin, if done right. But then, Dusran thought, Ghorbash was the kind of Orc who would be the most beautiful man on all of Nirn in any war paints at all._

_The pair made their way back through the trees, talking amongst themselves of what life in the Legion could bring, Dusran’s curiosities still leaving him bursting with questions, and his tusk-kin more than keen to share tales and explain his travels. Chatter stopped immediately as they stepped back through the clearing they found the Nord in earlier, however._

_The stag was back; the orange-hued glow of the sky painting it, making it look almost other-worldly. Not the blinding bright visage the moons would have brought it’s pale brilliance, but almost as though it had stepped out of another plane all the same._

_The opportunity was too good to miss, and Dusran, against a small whispered protestation from Ghorbash, crouched low and drew his bow back out. An arrow was nocked, a deep breath was taken, and then everything changed in an instant. He became a Doomed Thing, all too quickly._

_The arrow flew free of the bow, and before it could connect a screaming roar erupted from the trees, the noise almost deafening, the Orcish duo covering their ears. Dusran stumbled backwards and fell over his own legs; foolish like a child. Ghorbash’s axe was out instantly, teeth bared, his one good eye scanning the scene in front of them as quickly as he could. But in that moment of sensory blindness he was up to a loss of both ears and one eye, so he was blindsided when the beast came bounding out of the trees._

_It was a massive dark brown form, muscular and agile. Claws each the length of Dusran’s own hands burst outwards and into the flesh of the stag, connected to arms like the trees that surrounded them; sturdy and carrying a power that spoke to their solidity. The beasts jaws, frothing and spraying viscous saliva, tore down and into the creature, and with a sickening, impossibly loud crunching, wet, tearing noise the flesh was torn out and the stag was spraying it’s lifeblood against the grass and the beast that held it limp._

_It howled then, and bit further into the creature, and the sounds made the duo queasy. Dusran’s stomach was churning and the anxiety and panic sat in his gut like the worst meal of his life. His feet were like lead and he was sweating profusely. He barely managed to spare a glance to the side, and Ghorbash looked **terrified**. He’d never seen his tusk-kin wearing such fear._

_Dusran’s breathing quickened then, and the creature’s lupine ears twitched as it continued feasting, and Ghorbash’s hand was gripping Dusran’s wristto get his attention. They made eye contact, and the older Orc motioned backwards with his head, and crept backwards, letting go of the younger Orc’s wrist but unwilling to break eye contact._

_The pair barely made it backwards into the treeline, some kind of cover afforded to them, before the squelching and cracking noise stopped. There was a deep rumbling, and then a snuffling noise of heaving breath. That same screaming howl barrelled out, and then the pounding noise of the beasts feet was bounding towards them._

_Ghorbash tore Dusran’s arm forward and up and the pair got to their feet and sprinted, in a diagonal away from the creature. Backwards, but towards the side they knew the Stronghold to be on. They’d die out here, unless they could lose it, or make their way to the gates while screaming out warnings to the tribe and pleading to Malacath to lend the tribe His strength. There was no time for war-chants and battle-prayers._

_Ghorbash was ahead barely, and Dusran preferred it that way. He was nimbler, and had his full sight, so he could hopefully dodge the snapping of the creature; it’s horrifying snarling just behind their heels. He tore the hares free of his furs and dropped them, both to lose the minor weights, and to perhaps dissuade the beast._

_Something of that size, however, was never going to bother with creatures that small, and the chase continued. Darting between trees, and stumbling, shouting between the duo as their legs and adrenaline sped them home. They wouldn’t lose the horror on their tails and so a fight it had to be._

_They came, screaming and yelling, to the path leading up to the Stronghold in record time, and Dusran spared a glance backwards. There was enough distance that the beast’s attempt at throwing itself forward in a lunge failed, and it rolled and snapped it’s jaws in a fury at the failure._

_Arob and Nagrub spotted them then, and began screaming commands behind the walls, the pair moving to either side of the walls, arrows in their quivers, and then they were firing. The arrows were barely missing the running duo, and though it sounded like a few connected with flesh behind them, the beast did not slow once it regained it’s footing._

_Arob turned her head and was shouting backwards, no doubt alerting the rest of the stronghold, and Nagrub continued the assault._

_Ghorbash yelled then, and the beating of Dusran’s heart pounding in his head made the words seem almost like a whisper in comparison, but he saw the man’s arm shoot out, pointing to the hill beside the Stronghold. The pair made a beeline for it, having gained some distance on the beast, and then they threw themselves from the highest point, barely skimming over the top of the spiked wooden logs that walled the Stronnghold off from the rest of The Reach, their defense from a world that cared not for the Orcs and their customs._

_Ghorbash fell first, in an ungraceful heap, and then Burguk was there, getting him to his feet and shouting to Murbul. Dusran absorbed the fall on one side, his leg hitting the walls as he leapt, and he fell much harder than Ghorbash. The air was sucked out of him, and then Gharol and Umurn were helping him up, yelling for Shel._

_Once the pair were on their feet again, there came a thudding against the gates, and the wood was cracking. Burguk was yelling orders and the tribe submitted to his orders their training and fluidity as a unit, as a **tribe** , shining even in the face of their occasional verbal dysfunctions._

_Dusran and Ghorbash ran for the longhouse, pulling open the door and going immediately for where the weapons were kept. Ghorbash watched the door, and Dusran grabbed the Iron Hand’s shield, and his own warhammer, and then they were outside again._

_The beast tore through the gates as they passed the longhouse’s entrance once more, and arrows pelted it for it’s troubles. It snarled, and leapt forwards eyes tracking the prey, darting between the closest Orcs. It found Ghorbash then, straight ahead, and it’s claws stretched outwards as it howled. The shield was up in an instant, and the sound of the metal being shredded made Dusran’s blood turn to ice._

_Murbul was quicker though, chanting under her breath, and she was sending currents of pure lightning from her hands into the beast. It stumbled then, and shuddered, and Dusran took the opportunity to swing his warhammer out in a wide arc, smashing it into the beasts side. It recoiled, and Ghorbash threw his mangled shield to the side, lurching backwards on the ground to get better positioning and to regain his footing. Murbul took the instant to move her efforts from her lightning spells into channeling a shield around herself, her skin becoming sturdy like the beast’s own, augmented by her mana._

_Dusran saw red in that moment, and he knew all his kin would be feeling the same. His bloodlust and the potential to down the beast himself overtook him, and he swung out again and again with the warhammer, his overconfidence betraying his feet as he moved closer to continue the assault as the beast roared out and tore it’s claws out towards him, tearing through his arm, the lack of armour causing blood to erupt from his arm._

_He screamed, and three long, free-flowing rivers spilled from his arm. It was then Dusran noticed. The creature was missing two claws; on the left hand, resulting in the trio of lacerations on his arm. He drew his dagger and stabbed out at the beast’s face, striking it in the jaw, and those same three claws came back up, grazing his face then too. He fell backwards and Burguk threw himself forward, stabbing out at the creature with his greataxe, and then he found purchase, and the blade met the creature’s eyes. Burguk hacked and chopped into it, a guttural snarling matching the beast’s own wounded roars, as the Chief ended the creature with a sickening, gory display._

_Dusran’s free hand was clamped down on his arm, barely covering the length of the wound, almost unable to register the blood flowing from his face, and then the actions to follow were a blur, as the others noticed him._

_Murbul was yelling commands, and the others carried him inside with her, while Arob and Nagrub checked over the beast to ensure it was dead. Darkness filled his vision as he went into shock, and then he was still; his last memory of the fight, and that night at all, being Ghorbash’s strength helping to carry him in, his hands clamping down on the wound as the others moved to grab things for Murbul to work with._

Lash was silent then, as Ghorbash finished explaining, and as The Iron Hand looked down, he realised his hand was bleeding and he had been crying from the memories, the ivory tearing into his hand from the ferocity with which he gripped it as he recounted the tale; the tears and blood mingling.

A few quick, sharp breaths and then he calmed himself. The blood from his hand had spilled into the etchings, watered down from the salted tears that mixed, staining the ivory. He wasn’t sure if he considered it a desecration of it’s purpose, or yet another, third, shifting declaration from the original purpose.

**Malacath forgive me.**

His grasp never loosened from the tiny idol as the night passed, and sleep evaded him; discussion was brief between the two, and then Lash made her exit for a short time to inform the town that one of her Orcish kin had left, and would return come morning, before returning to the hut herself, and managing to get some rest. The other miners entered later, and even Belchimac did not dare utter a word, none of them sparing so much as even a look in The Iron Hand’s direction, Lash no doubt telling them to leave him. It was better this way.

He prayed all night, soft words under his breath, begging Malacath to guide him, and to keep Dusran safe; desperate to explain that it wasn’t a _betrayal_ , that the curse was thrust upon them unwillingly.

The snoring of the miners was the only reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still some Orc Pain because I cannot give my favourites a break yet, but it was fun to finally go back and flesh out the specifics of the attack. Combat there should be lore accurate regarding what the individual Orcs are outfitted with, in-game. There's also some fun allusions to Hircine and his lore in there with the Nord Hunter, so if you like, look into those! I found the lore of his aspects to be quite interesting, and regardless of whether the Hunter/Beast was correct and the stag was Uricanberg's offspring, the "reward" he was given in the past was indeed lycanthropy. He just sought further teachings from Hircine, through Storihbeg as the Man-Beast.
> 
> I also had fun thinking about what specific colours could mean, for payment, in terms of war paints and such, and I always enjoy that kind of concept; even if Dusran is more extravagant than Ghorbash in that regard!
> 
> Again, thanks for the patience, as this did require some re-writes as I found the way I wanted to convey things, but hopefully it is worth the wait!
> 
> Next stop; the pains of Blood Price!


End file.
